


Deeper Devastation

by poemwithnorhyme



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Druid!Stiles, Gen, Knotting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:47:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poemwithnorhyme/pseuds/poemwithnorhyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pressure of the nemeton's magic stifles him, and he snaps his eyes open as he chokes for a breath, but cannot yet see – everything is so dark, so black. He is shoved back down as soon as his head leaves the wood, because, of course, he's lying smack dab in the middle of the gigantic tree-trunk at the center of this magical monstrosity.</p><p>Power buzzes just above his skin, inquiring, eager.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Deeper Devastation

**Author's Note:**

> Title was taken from "Deeper Devastation" by Jesca Hoop.
> 
> I want to thank both Alex and Kirsty for helping me edit this and just generally giving me the confidence to post <3

Deaton had given Stiles a book on magical spaces the day after Scott became an Alpha, and he'd read it all that same night. Asking for more had simply prompted Deaton to take him under his wing, and here he is now – an emissary in training. 

It's only been a few weeks since the lunar ellipse, and Stiles feels like the whole world has changed. It's become more real, somehow more vivid. If he didn't know better, he would have guessed he was turning into a werewolf. Of course, Deaton just says it's merely due to his increasing awareness, whatever that means (Stiles knows what it means; he is no longer simply toeing the line at the supernatural. He has thrown himself headfirst into the cesspool of impossibility.) Plus, since Beacon Hills itself is spouting all the signs of being a Sunnydale wannabe, it only makes sense that he'd see and feel phenomena he hasn't before.

Due to all of this heightened awareness nonsense, he doesn't even need to open his eyes to know that wherever he is spells trouble for him. The energy here is frazzled, lashing out hot and then cooling to nothing, humming with a strangled vibration, yearning to be free. 

It's the nemeton. He may have known this place was special before, but there was no way he had possessed the knowledge to fully recognize the sheer wonder and fear the nemeton instills the last time he'd been here.

The pressure of the nemeton's magic stifles him, and he snaps his eyes open as he chokes for a breath, but cannot yet see – everything is so dark, so black. He is shoved back down as soon as his head leaves the wood, because, of course, he's lying smack dab in the middle of the gigantic tree-trunk at the center of this magical monstrosity.

Power buzzes just above his skin, inquiring, eager. Stiles squirms and whines in response, because it actually _hurts_ , like a couple dozen needles are being driven into his flesh. The hands keeping him down don't budge. 

It's only when he hears a weak voice in the background, reverberating like bad reception on a cellphone until suddenly it's clear as a bell - “Stiles!”

Lydia is here. Lucidity returns to him with a jolt, his urge to protect, to defend, strong enough to wake him from his battered daze. His head is killing him, and he can't tell if it because of the blow that had knocked him unconscious, or where they are currently at.

“Lydia?! Lydia!” 

Stiles' struggles persist, and his vision finally clears enough for him to take a good look. The sight of Peter certainly doesn't make him stop, if anything, he becomes even more enraged.  
“What the fuck are you doing here, Peter?! No one has seen you for weeks, we thought you'd left...”

“Like Derek? Oh no, you'll be unhappy to know that I've been here this whole time. Waiting.”

“Yeah?” Stiles smirks, even if confident is the last thing he feels, “For what, exactly? You can't take Scott's power, you know. He's got his pack.”

He spares a glance for Lydia,“ _Our_ pack.”

“The ellipse did wonders for me, as you can see,” Peter continues, ignoring him, “Revitalized me in a way I had never thought possible, and then taking the darach's life... Well, let's just say that the little trouble I was having before, that petty weakness?” 

He pauses, matching Stiles' smirk, only his is genuine, the oily grin of a man in utter control, “Basically gone. I just need to add the finishing touches.”

Stiles can't stop his eyes from going wide, can't stop looking at Lydia. She's handcuffed to a silver birch tree, a tree of magic, of memory, according to Deaton's lectures. He can only speculate what it means, but it's definitely important. She is gazing at him with tears streaming down her soft cheeks, the glaze that comes with her foresight coloring her beautiful green eyes. Lydia senses death here, and Stiles knows full well what that means.

He panics, he can't help it. His hand curls around Peter's wrist, “Whatever they are, leave Lydia out of it! I'll do whatever you want, I swear it, just let her go.”

“Unfortunately for Lydia here, her presence is crucial for this ritual, otherwise I'd happily let her be on her way. But, considering I don't actually wish to harm her, I won't. As long as you don't give me a reason to.”

Stiles blinks, hesitating. Lydia calls his name again, but this time, he doesn't return the favor. He nods, licking his lips with feigned indifference, “What sort of ritual?”

Peter dips his chin, disappointment apparent, “Come now, Stiles. I've seen you in action – give yourself some credit. Why don't you try and add up the details, hmm?”

Stiles does as he's told, if only because he knows he's getting nothing from Peter and why not prolong the inevitable, just in case there may be a rescue. He looks around, more carefully this time. He notices the torches Peter has placed in the four corners around the nemeton, the pendents dangling off each, though he cannot make out their shapes.

This place, it is a channel for magic, for healing and poison both. 

So. what would Peter want, most of all? Power, of course, much like Jennifer. Peter still has many reasons to seek vengeance against all of them. They had killed him, after all. Besides Lydia, of course, since she'd done the exact opposite.

Yes, Peter wants to be stronger than Scott, than the twins and Isaac. He wants to be Alpha again. And this is somehow the only way to do it. Whatever _this_ is.

“You still can't defeat Scott, you know. No matter what you do. He's a true Alpha. He's earned his powers. You're just a murderer.”

Peter shakes his head, eyes softening as he hops up onto the trunk with Stiles. He casually straddles Stiles' hips and waves a finger in front of his face, “You're wrong on both counts. Well, I am a murderer, but not _just_ that. Oh no. I have never been and never will be “just” anything. And I do not want to defeat Scott, or even hurt him. Nor any of your pack. You, however, are an exception.”

Stiles flinches, though whether the response is caused by Peter's words or the fact that he is squeezing Stiles' chin between two fingers, he's not entirely certain. 

“Someone has to take one for the team, and I'm afraid you happen to be the only proper candidate. Not that I'm complaining.. I would have chosen you were there someone else or not...”

Stiles jerks his head away, but is unable to escape, “I still don't understand...” He frowns. It's hard to talk, considering Peter's stringent grip. Peter just looks at him, expecting, mocking. 

So Stiles _thinks_. What does he have that the others in his pack don't, something with magical properties. He can manipulate mountain ash, but that can't be right. So can Lydia, Morrell, Deaton, and Allison.

He thinks back on the first book Deaton had given him. It had explained places like this, and what is typically done here. Julia had used the nemeton for her own gain. She had veritably sacrificed her soul for a chance at revenge, for a chance at obtaining _real_ power. And how had she done it?

He blinks, startled, because _he gets it_. What does he have that the others don't? What had he just been complaining about months prior?

He's a goddamn virgin.

“Are you going to sacrifice me?” Stiles asks, as stoic as possible even if he thinks he knows the answer.

Peter laughs at him, but releases him nonetheless. Stiles tests his jaw, stretching it and glaring with as much venom as he can muster.

“No, I am not going to sacrifice you. But seeing as you figured it out, how about you say it out loud? What do you have to offer me?”

His face goes red at the question, affronted. It's not that his virginity is a secret, especially not after he'd virtually shouted it in the boy's locker room. No, it's the way Peter said it. Every word out of his mouth is meticulous; Stiles is here to _offer_ his virginity, for Peter to take, to use.

His lips curl as he nearly spits, “Then why bring her?! Why does she have to be here? You just need me, right?”

The righteous self-degradation soaking every word is unintentional, but there it is. He's never been anything if not humiliatingly obvious.

“I told you, she is necessary. She must bear witness, and provide testament. Now, say it, Stiles. What do I want from you? What do I want to _do_ to you, so lovely Ms. Martin over there isn't so out of the loop. You promised you'd tell her everything after Jackson, didn't you? No more secrets?”

Stiles gapes at him. Lydia asks what is going on, although, from the tone of her voice, she already _knows_ just as well as Stiles does.

“No. I won't. This is degrading enough.”

Peter's eyes flash with amusement. His hand is underneath Stiles' shirt now, rucking the material up as he explores the expanse of his smooth flesh, the threat of his claws ever present. 

One nail digs in, then two, three, all of them, pinching and breaking his skin enough to trickle blood. Stiles groans, curling inward on himself, as much as Peter's weight will allow.

Peter is all too close, his breath dripping heat on Stiles' neck, “You think _this_ is degrading? You haven't even been prepared for the ritual yet. You haven't seen degrading.”

He yanks his nails out of Stiles' skin in one harsh movement, eliciting a wet gasp from his lips. Peter smothers the leaking wounds with the flat of his palm, scraping his hand downward. The ooze of blood trails him. 

“Now, let me ask again.. What is it you have for me?”

Peter has got to be doing this just for the joy of it. He looks too pleased with himself to actually be irritated. 

Peter edges towards his belt, deft fingers unbuttoning and tugging lightly, teasing, “Say it, Stiles.”

Lydia is whimpering something, sharp pleas filled with fury, something about how he doesn't have to do this. Is she talking to Stiles, or to Peter? He's not sure. It doesn't particularly matter.

Peter has no qualms about taking what he wants, Stiles has no doubt. So Stiles, in turn, has no choice. He'll face this with what modicum of dignity he can manage to retain.

The air around him is coiled, restless. He knows it wants blood, he can _feel_ its desire, thrumming through the trunk at his back, swooping down from the arch of trees above him.

Peter curls his fingers around Stiles' dick, jerking up but otherwise remaining merely cautionary. 

Stiles' breath disappears.

“Stiles,” Peter warns, “Or must I ask Lydia?”

Peter doesn't have to say anything else to make his threat more clear. If there is one thing Stiles will never do, it is willfully put Lydia at risk. At further risk anyways.

“I... I'm a virgin.”

“Yes, and what does that mean, Stiles? What am I going to _do_ to you?” Peter dips down as he speaks, eyes intent, tracing the outline of his mouth.

Stiles feels vulnerable, _is_ vulnerable, of course. He shivers, simultaneously too hot and too cold. Lydia is silent now. He's sure, if he were to look, she'd be standing there, bent against the tree, hands at her chest no matter how much the metal tugs at her skin or bites at her bones, because she _cares_ \- she just can't do anything to help. Not even screaming will help this. There's something about this air, this place. 

Tonight, nothing gets out, and nothing gets in.

“You're going to fuck me.” It's easier to say than he thought it would be, and his voice doesn't even waver. He sounds resigned, empty. He may feel like that too, he can't be sure quite yet.

Stiles gulps in air as the gravity of the situation hits him. Peter is twice his age. He murdered his own flesh and blood. He had brutally attacked the girl Stiles loves, and has now kidnapped her. And Stiles is about to lose his virginity to him.

And all on a goddamn oak tree.

Peter is frowning at him, eyes nevertheless gleaming with a dangerous brand of perverse delight, “So harsh, Stiles. Why not make love to you, hmm?”

Stiles laughs, his eyes narrowing in bitter disdain, “Not that you'd even be capable of it, I hate your guts, remember?”

“Tell me then, Stiles. Who would you rather it be? Sweet Lydia, our beautiful banshee? Or, perhaps, Scott, your Alpha, your best friend?”

Stiles attempts to give him no additional fodder, keeping any response out of his eyes, or, he tries. His lips, however, are another matter. They twitch in repulsion, and not because the idea of Lydia or Scott touching him is so terrible, since both had been staples in his spank bank once upon a time. Hell, Lydia, at least, still is. Peter simply has no right to taunt him like this. His hand is already on his _cock_ for christ's sake. Isn't that adequate trauma for one night, let alone what Peter is about to do?

“Oh. Is that a no?” Peter tilts his head, “Perhaps not then. What about my nephew, or my niece? You did seem rather cozy with Cora, and you have quite the history with Derek. In fact, I bet, if you had asked him nicely to please, take your pesky virginity away, he would have been more than happy to push you to your knees and oblige. He would have regarded it as a favor, considering magic's proclivity for virgins... You could have avoided all of this! What a shame – for you, anyways.”

The mention of Derek, of Cora, makes his lip twitch with something else entirely. It feels too close to home, the comment, that if he'd just _asked_ , he wouldn't be in this position. 

No, what is he thinking?! That's bullshit! Peter is just manipulating him; that is what he wants. For Stiles to feel guilty, when this situation has nothing to do with him. This is Peter's decision, Peter's actions. Stiles refuses to play his fucking game.

“I've got a better idea! Why don't you shut the hell up, stop monologuing, and get this over with so I can go home and figure out a way to kill you, how about that?”

Peter chuckles, _chuckles_ , but he remove his hand from Stiles' dick, which is great. Unfortunately, his hand fits even more snugly around Stiles' throat. Peter lifts him up, closing the distance between their faces while his eyes flicker royal blue in the ruddy light of the torches surrounding them.

“I like you Stiles, you know that. I could have picked anyone, really... Any youth who prizes their virginity, and oh so needlessly. You do know that virginity itself is a meaningless concept, yet, the moment someone gives it weight, makes it an aspect of their very personality... Ah, now that is a magical thing, and you, my sweet,” Peter twines his fingers in Stiles' hair then, wrenching his head back as he licks an obscene stripe up his throat with ease, ending at his ear, “are absolutely _brimming_ with it, with magic.”

His words hover close, coveting and powerful, and Stiles trembles despite himself.

“You can control mountain ash like a druid-born. You can save lives with your love and dedication. Shedding your blood here, where it might mingle with the remnants of memories past and present...”

Peter sighs, obviously smitten by the notion, “Well, let's just say, rituals as potent as this one will be are considered mere tales, relics of an age long since dead.”

"By the way, I do so love what you've done with your hair," he tugs at it again, "So much easier to get a good grip on you." 

Peter rumbles with vicious pride as he slashes at Stiles' shirt with his free hand hand. He begins to pull at his pants next, when Lydia cries out in the back, finally, as though it had taken her this long to find the words, “No, stop! This can't be the only way, you just, you said you needed his blood, not his life, not … this!”

Peter relinquishes his grip, and Stiles falls back in a heap, attempting to pull himself away solely out of habit.

“Correct as always, Lydia. I need his virgin blood, and as for the rest, well, that's half the fun now isn't it? It's not always about need, you know...”

Stiles cannot look at Lydia's face, he simply can't. She had tried, but she is just as impotent as he is, and Stiles knows how she reacts to being helpless. The emotion in her eyes will swim to pity rather than desperation, and to see it would sting all the more. He can't handle seeing her suffer for his sake when just a year ago, she wouldn't even look his way.

Why does it have to be _her_?! Allison he could have handled – at least she'd keep emotion out of it. Scott, too, since he'd just get angry. Lydia, though, oh there's anger simmering beneath that fortitude of hers, but it is the fear that rules her, despair – it is her nature, after all. She is strong, more than Stiles is, that's for sure, but sorrow is branded into her very soul. It doesn't make her any less capable, but it does drive that sinking feeling in his gut all the deeper.

Peter has resumed tugging at his pants, fingers slipping under his boxers in preparation to glide those off as well.

“You think you can go any slower?” Stiles jokes; a stale attempt at staying sane. Peter knows it, and smiles in return.

Except for the residual tatters of his shirt, Stiles is all flesh. Needless to say, when faced with the hunk of muscle and merciless ambition that is Peter Hale, he's less than thrilled. Scared shitless, really.

His hands shake as Peter takes him by his hair and hauls him up. His ass drags against the wood, but somehow he knows he's in no danger of splinters, thank god. Peter nestles his thighs on either side of his torso and lets him drop before leaning down to nip at Stiles' lips with his own.

When he finally kisses him, it's all teeth, his lips mangled within the first few minutes. They swell with blood, and Peter laps up the traces. Stiles protests, whining deep in his throat. Peter yanks Stiles' arms above him, squeezing bone against bone as he clasps his wrists in one hand.

Peter's free hand wanders to Stiles' throat once more, claws sharp and possessive. It takes a mere few seconds for his oxygen to fade, his head to go light and his vision to blacken at the edges. The scuffle of life and death stirs the panic from his heart, urging him to hang on, to fight. He surges forward, hips bucking at Peter, endeavoring to dislodge him.

He, of course, gets no where, but his actions are evidently enough to remind Peter that he is dealing with a human since he does release him. Stiles coughs hard enough for his head to echo with it.

Peter is reaching in his pocket and pulling something out, and doesn't Stiles know precisely what it is. There is the sound of rustling clothes as Peter shucks off his coat, then his pants, his shirt, everything – all with one hand; he can probably tell that Stiles would bolt if given the slightest chance, even if he knew he'd fail. It's just instinctual, to want to get away from this.

Stiles opens his mouth to say something sarcastic or perhaps serious, he can't decide, but he can't so much as squeak out a syllable. There's nothing in his mind, nothing except a numb sort of desolation and the promise that it will be over by morning. It seems even his best defense mechanism has been subdued by this place, by Peter's determination.

Cool liquid is slathered onto him, then a wave of pressure that retreats as abruptly as it appears. It happens again and again, and Stiles eventually registers that Peter is _preparing_ him. He sucks in a breath, hissing as the ache of it strikes him all at once.

Peter bends to his clavicle as he works, dotting Stiles' chest with imprints of his teeth and murmuring praises into his ribcage; as though he'd love nothing more than to tear his way through to the still-beating heart inside.

Stiles is sure that whatever Peter is saying make perfect sense, but he doesn't even try to understand them. He focuses instead on the steady anchor of the trunk behind him. It's softer than he might have imagined, nearly bowing under his frame as if to ease his agony. 

The air around him, though, is suffocating. That ripe, excitable throb in the air has blossomed into an active pulse, encroaching more and more onto his skin.

“You're almost ready now, Stiles...”

Peter lets his hand fall away from his wrists, though he leaves his fingers stuffed inside of him. Instantly, Stiles lurches upward, only to be slammed back with a snarl. For now, he doesn't try again.

Peter uses the harmless pads of his fingertips to create a design out of the mess his goddamn love-bites had left on his chest. After, he traces the lines with blood, extracted by the fine point of one, elegant claw.

Stiles can't stop the virtual yelp that scrambles out of his throat – it fucking hurts! At first, he's not sure what Peter is drawing. When he raises his chin to see, there's just too much blood, but he then he takes a moment to _feel_ it.

The triskelion.

“You bastard – stop! I don't - ow, ow, ow. Don't want Derek's tattoo on my chest!”

Peter's finger is still lodged inside of him, every scream causing his body to convulse and push into it, and fuck, he's stinging in areas he never knew existed.

Lydia is crying, and Stiles shouldn't be able to hear her – she's so far away, and her tears are quiet, muffled. Yet, to him, she is loud as a siren.

“It's not a mere tattoo, my dear Stiles, as you well know. This is a sigil of the power of three, and ah, look at that! There just happens to be three of us here, isn't there? What a coincidence.”

Smug bastard.

“Go fuck yourself.” It's not the most intelligent come-back, but it's the quickest.

Peter rolls his eyes, that much Stiles can see. Peter leans back on his haunches to inspect his work, grinning, his fangs poignant reminders of just how much worse this could still get.

He hums with approval and pulls his fingers out with a tug. Stiles, like an idiot, feels relieved, hoping for a moment's reprieve, though he knows better. It's not surprising when the pressure returns, sparks of color showering his vision.

Peter does not pause, starting up a quick, assertive pace. His irises are glowing – they're beautiful, a realization that makes Stiles want to weep. Granted, he does start sobbing, but not because of that. 

No, at this point, the air is a crushing force, tendrils poking and prodding. 

His eyes shut, teeth clenching as his fingers tightly curl around a bundle of moss. Its roots go deep. Stiles can feel those too, their ebb and flow.

It's as though he's the frayed end of an electrical wire, the current creasing through him, burning everything it touches.

Stiles wants to scream, to beg Peter to stop because he's being torn apart; from inside and out. He can't say a word – opening his mouth only invites a sharp tang, something akin to the smoke of a candle just blown out. 

Fear rises in his throat, poised to consume him. Peter is whispering words above him, latin, and although he has no clue what the hell Peter is saying, it seems to have an impact no matter, because the heavy flare inside of him begins to recede. A sensation wholly alien and yet somehow soothing takes its place.

Comprehension springs awake as cool-warm embers settle deep into the marrow of his bones, amalgamating with his blood as though it is meant to be there...

Magic, he's tasting _magic_.

A numbing sort of waves rushes to the tips of his fingers and toes. He barely feels Peter, not until the monster is clawing at him, quite literally maiming his chest as he thrusts quicker, harder, panting and practically howling his prayers.

Stiles doesn't feel the pain like he should. It's sharp, but short-lived. Whether it's being seeped away by blood loss or by the frissons of magic cocooning him, he doesn't really care to guess. His fingers go slack, though the rhythm of the moss continues its pace. 

He expects it to end like that. With him on the edge of giving up, if only due to sheer exhaustion, while magic devours him whole and leaves nothing but his bones.

Of course, he has no such luck. It starts with a sense of discomfort, which is strange, since this entire deal is uncomfortable and for one aspect to stand out... Well, Stiles is sufficiently worried.

Peter's movements are slowing, and he's ceased ripping Stiles' chest to shreds. Rather, he begins to lick up the bounty of blood he has reaped, groaning in appreciation. He lifts him up the trunk further, hands kneading at his ass. 

Involuntary whimpers creep up his throat as the pressure persists. Peter is deeper than before, but he is barely moving. Nonetheless, the agony climbs. He feels stretched, pushed past his limits as Peter seems to _grow_ inside of him.

Stiles eyes are open now, his mouth wide in a silent cry. Peter's eyes are orange.

 **Orange**.

His breath comes out in short, strained gasps, choking him more than helping. He thrashes, “What the fuck! Stop, get off of me – get _off!_ ”

Peter laughs, voice wet with Stiles' blood, “With due time, Stiles. Patience.” He is still unmoving – Stiles makes up for that on his own, still mindlessly trying to escape. Peter makes sure to thank him for his help with a not so subtle push of his hips, seating himself all the deeper.

Stiles burns, but he listens this time. 

Lydia has retreated into simmering silence, for which Stiles is grateful.

Peter begins to rock into him once again, each second more excruciating than the next. He really is tearing Stiles apart; he's too big, stuffed inside of him like he is, and stuck, so it seems. Stiles finds himself wriggling, if only in response to how _wrong_ this is, yet Peter does not move. 

Stiles laughs, a desperate and terrible thing, at a loss for what else to do. Peter should have come by now, he should be done.

Peter abandons his feast over Stiles' heart in order to tug at his lips, eyes closed with evident rapture. A crazed noise rolls alive in Stiles' throat and he snaps forward, taking a good chunk of Peter's bottom lip into his mouth – quite literally, _taking it_. 

He's not sure how he does it, he shouldn't have the strength to do so, but he does anyways. Then he spits Peter's flesh back out at him.

Peter barely reacts, sans for an irritated growl, but his eyes are open now. The orange has gotten darker, as if being directly imbued with Stiles' blood.

Stiles clings to the moss still between his fingers, pulling at them, begging the nemeton to give him the will to survive this.

Rather than returning the favor as Stiles had anticipated, Peter nuzzles his cheek, curls his fingers in Stiles' hair, and yanks his head back. He chokes on copper as it consequently pours into the back of his throat, congealing and heavy. Peter gazes down at him, looking no more than fond, of course, before giving him a bloody kiss.

“I knew you were the right choice, Stiles.”

Peter cradles the back of Stiles knees and pushes him further into the wood, grunting from both strain and pleasure. Stiles can't stop himself from screaming now. Peter is so thick inside of him, impossibly so. 

Blood spills from his chest like a river onto his collarbone, collecting on his neck. The flavor of Peter's skin still roils his taste buds. So much blood, the stench of it overripe and foul – the magic around him verily basks in it. Stiles feel it pool around him, in him, never ceasing its electric dance.

Latin bounces off the tree limbs and spirals into the particles of magic surrounding them. His ears are ringing so loudly he can hear nothing else for a few almost pleasant moments, until he comes to and realizes that the cloying scent of a snuffed out candle has returned. It sours his palate, though he is thankful that he can no longer distinctly taste Peter. 

The swell of magic slinks down into his belly, squeezing him from the inside out. The sensation is utterly in tune with Peter, undulating and equally as thorough.

Peter's eyes are getting darker still. Stiles, for his part, feels weaker than he ever has in his life. Even when his mother slowly died before his very eyes, he had felt more in control, more _himself_. He has no energy to speak of, despite his recent outburst; which feels like oh so long ago.

Ah. It all clicks. Peter is not only using him for a ritual, he is draining him dry – using Stiles' intimacy with magic as a boost; the final hit he needs.

This won't kill him, no, Stiles doesn't feel his life slip from him, only his _purpose_.

He can't let it happen. He can't. 

The pressure is bursting again, this time scratching at him from under his very skin, longing to answer Peter's bidding and share itself with him. Stiles may not have the energy to quell it, but he does have the spirit.

He needs a way in. He can't break Peter's concentration on his own.

Latin fragments into keening moans. The ache worsens, the pain so far gone on the scale that Stiles feels nothing more than disassociated. He feels suddenly warmer, and when it registers why, he could cry. Not that he isn't crying – he was being torn apart, he kind of can't help but shed a few tears. He doesn't have much water left though, seeing as how it's running out of him from almost every orifice...

Peter pulls Stiles head back once more so he can playfully nip at Stiles' throat, as if this is _fun_. 

He feels the magic in him sink lower, rushing away, leaving him hollowed out and cold. So cold. 

No! It can't be over! He can't have lost. He won't let himself lose. He digs his finger in the wood behind him, nails breaking as he scratches his way through to the channels beneath. Power sparks inside of him again, rising up to gather at his bloody fingertips.

Peter has begun to chant again, teeth nudging the skin at his neck as he jerks his hips, lodging himself deeper, somehow always deeper...

The stolen magic Peter now wields continues to press down upon him. He cannot break through, not with his measly power.

Lydia screams, sweet, beautiful Lydia, her voice like a whipcord – compelling enough to cease Peter's chant, to cause the connection between them to waver.

Stiles lets fly with his only remaining weapon, slinging magic where it will injure Peter the most - not quite sure how he knows is able to summon magic into a palpable form, not to mention where to aim but not hesitating to take full advantage of his evidently natural talent. 

He targets Peter's own magic.

God he hopes Lydia will be okay.

The first indication of contact between he and Peter is a visible disturbance in the air, a wave of color – red, blue, melted gold... The second is agony that rivals what came before. His body stiffens in Peter's embrace.

White-heat radiates from his neck. Liquid sluices forth, coating his hair and gushing to his ear.

Peter is everywhere again, his magic insistent and persuasive as it licks at his flesh.

Lydia shouts his name.

His magic swarms to his palms, and he knows what he has to do. Again, he attacks, jarring Peter's concentration and rewiring the channels of magic around them – he feels it driving into his skin, coursing through his veins, too much, too much – all he can see is red, all he can feel is fire.

It burns him from the inside out, charring his ribcage and steaming his heart. His hope withers – he's killed himself, he cannot handle this heat, this raw _power_. 

Peter's magic continues to resist him, fanning the flames inside of him. Peter is back to mauling his chest, shouting at him to give it back, whatever that means – Peter is a secondary threat now, anyways. Stiles' magic, however, is evidently tired of being bothered as it crackles to the surface, coursing into Peter and flinging him backward.

In Peter's absence, Stiles shakes, a sweat overwhelming him. He curls into a ball.

“Stiles! Stiles!”

Stiles turns his head and blinks, his vision foggy with tears and exhaustion. 

He smiles, baring his teeth, “Lydia!” He is sure he sounds drunk, or, he supposes, just woozy from blood loss. His flesh prickles all over, twin energies still warring inside of him.

He feels a kick in his stomach, one which shoots straight to his heart, causing him to arc his neck and groan. A cool sensation flares across his mutilated chest, distracting him from the blaze his body has become. 

Lydia grabs his hands, squeezing in an effort to comfort him. In actuality, he can barely feel her. Nevertheless, he returns the gesture, glad he can at least accomplish that.

The balming chill spreads as the magic within him scatters, but does not disappear. No, it is here to stay. Stiles somehow knows that. 

He leans on Lydia as he struggles to sit up, flinching when he receives a pulsing reminder of the exact locations of his wounds. He still has no clue what Peter did to him near the end there. It simultaneously hurts more and less than it probably should, considering he feels like his ass is one immense gaping hole. Disgusting and yet relatively true.

It's not the pain that churns his stomach, though. It's the slip and slide of his own body, matted in blood, sweat, and semen. 

He looks around, easily spotting Peter on the ground, face first in the grass, buck-naked. He winces, flexing his fingers in Lydia's hold. He glances at her handcuff-less wrists, raising a brow in question, managing to choke out the words, “What the hell?” 

As good a question as any.

While he waits, he raises a pinky to his ear, attempting to pick out the blood still stuck in his ear. His arm creaks with protest, but he ignores the pang. It's not the worst he's felt tonight, after all.

“You did this,” Lydia responds, shrugging, “When you did whatever it is you did, the first time? They just popped right off.”

“Right.” Stiles is just going to accept it at this point. 

“And after you threw Peter back, I knocked him out with this,” she points down at a heavy oak branch lying by her ankles.

"Right, yeah. Okay. No, wait, how are you possibly strong enough to take down a werewolf again?” He squints, puzzled, “How am _I_ strong enough? Ouch, no, that train of thought just makes my head hurt... You know what? We can figure it out later. Can I get some clothes?”

“Oh, god! Yeah, of course! It'll have to be his because I don't even have a jacket, but..”

“Yeah, just what I want. More Peter. Whatever, it's warm.”

A leathery material is pushed gently into his grasp. When he raises his arms to put the repulsively classy coat around him, he realizes there is a problem. He shouldn't be able to do this without pain. Hell, he shouldn't have even been talking this much! He had just chalked it up to shock, but that can't be it... Something isn't right. 

“Oh my god... Oh shit, Stiles. Your chest...”

Stiles gazes down, “What?” All he sees is blood, some bits darker than others. Yet, there is no flayed skin exposing muscle tissue and organs. Rather, the blood shimmers on a perfectly smooth expanse of skin. 

He instinctively raises his fingers to his most recent injury. His fingers glide in more blood, which is not unexpected. Except nothing on his neck feels torn. Instead, there are subtle bumps of flesh, a partial ring of them.

His heart stops.

He meets Lydia's eyes, breath visibly catching in her throat.

“Stiles. Your eyes.... They're red.”


End file.
